Every year, the holidays bring forth a flood of precious memories like so much bourbon puke in the opening scene of Bad Santa. There's the year I landed in the ER twice between December 1 and New Year's Day—for fracturing my foot, smashing a beer bottle into my hand, and, well, being a bit too jolly, as it were... But I'll leave the reminiscing to those who can bring some real cheer to the season. The Stranger is hosting the city's craziest bash with the Strangercrombie Holiday Blowout. To celebrate the successful run of our annual for-charity gift guide, we're filling the Showbox with an eclectic mix of talent and tinsel: singing polar bears and guest DJs; funk, soul, pop, rock, and hiphop; and the always unclassifiable Dina Martina. Plus, there'll be a Santa lap for you to sit on and characters from less-commercially-fortunate December celebrations. It all goes down this Friday and that low door fee adds a bit more to Northwest Harvest's coffers.

Below, a few of the evening's entertainers offer treasured memories from holidays gone by. —Jennifer Maerz

In 1995 I was living in Savannah, Georgia, running a small bar-slash-nightclub with my friend Barry. Being the only two in our circle of friends still in town for the holidays, he and I celebrated Christmas at Denny's. I still remember exactly what I ordered: a mushroom Swiss burger, fries, and coffee. I don't recall what Barry had. Aside from the $100 check my mother mailed me, the only real gift I got that Christmas was a Chia Pet—from Barry. He had bought four or five to give as gag gifts and I got one of them. We sat in a booth at Denny's, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and staring at that stupid Chia Pet. About eight months later the bar went tits up. Barry and I both moved to Portland, eventually going our separate ways. I moved to Seattle in 1998. Last I heard about Barry he'd become an exotic dancer at a strip club with both male and female revues, gotten one of the other dancers pregnant, and moved to New Mexico. —DJ Curtis

Total Experience Gospel Choir once got a request to sing at a very formal affair at one of the so-called prestigious social events in Seattle. The catering staff and the choir were both dressed in black and white. However, the choir was also adorned with beautiful kente cloth, which distinguished the choir members from the catering staff. Also, the choir was predominately African American and the catering staff was NOT!

A very inebriated and quite obviously well-to-do woman approached me and requested quite blatantly, "Girlie, bring me a drink." I ignored her and waited for them to call upon us to sing. When we came to the end of our set, I purposely chose the song "Reach Out and Touch Somebody's Hand" so that we could make a point. I deliberately went over to the woman's table and begin singing to her. She quickly picked up on what I was doing and began to offer an apology for her earlier behavior.

My point: Just because I look similar to what you think I am does not mean that I am what you think. Simply treat everyone as you wish to be treated and apologies will not be necessary. —Pastor Pat Wright, Wheedle's Groove/Total Experience Gospel Choir

I kept believing in Santa Claus until the third grade. Which I've been told is really late, but whatever. I was imaginative and sorta gullible. Anyway, the kids in my class were teasing me about it so I went home and asked my dad and he spilled the beans. I wasn't crushed or sad or anything. It wasn't like one of those movies or very special Christmas TV shows where the kid finds out about Santa and goes through some sort of existential crisis. Actually, I sort of felt cool and grown-up. Everything made way more sense. My dad told me that under no circumstance should I tell my little sister, who had just turned 5 years old and still very much believed. I told him okay. Then I told her about a half hour later. She didn't take it as well as me. —Eric Johnson, Fruit Bats

As kids, weeks before Christmas we used to always find our Christmas presents, open them, and rewrap them. My parents had no idea, but when my brother and I were around 9 and 11 we got caught. In punishing us, our parents promised that the following Christmas we would get no presents... simply a family dinner, giving thanks for what we had. We, of course, didn't believe them. As next year came, Mom and Dad firmly stuck to their story. We saw no Christmas tree and no sign of presents. On Christmas Eve we went to sleep, all teary-eyed and stunned that this was actually happening. In the middle of the night, I awoke, startled by my younger brother's scream—which you could hear on First Avenue—"Come quick Ronnie, they fooled us." Turns out, for over a month, Mom and Dad hid all the presents—including 10-speed bikes, toys, and even the Christmas tree—in the basement of my mom's business, Special Style Cleaners. They went as far as decorating the tree and wrapping the presents in their work basement. Once we fell asleep, my dad and uncle packed everything into the work van and unloaded all the goodies into our house. They got us good and we talked about it for years. —Ron Buford, Wheedle's Groove

I'll never forget being utterly deflated by the revelation that "you-know-who" wasn't real. It was late, our parents were already fast asleep, and my siblings and I were gathered together 'round the tree—counting and comparing packages. Entranced by the glow of the lights, I wistfully asked them if they thought I might one day see the Great One: if, perchance, I lived a life of service and good deeds, if I never told a lie, if I convinced others of his majesty and made them believe, too—would I receive boundless gifts of joy forever and ever?!?!? It was the eldest brother who brought me out of my state of euphoria with a sharp slap to the noggin as he said: "You dumbass, THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS JESUS!!!" Sorry kids... —Ra Scion, Common Market

Listen to MP3s from Band of Horses, Common Market, Fruit Bats, and Wheedle's Groove!